


If Loving Was Easy

by gigantic



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-21
Updated: 2008-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's really a simple case of logic that's led Patrick here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Loving Was Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Months ago, eleanor_lavish and I were talking about how Patrick/Bert would be AWESOME, right? And she had some great ideas, but when I insisted that she write it, she got all nervous about posting _Patrick/Bert_ of all things, so I came up with an amazing plan to write something really ridiculous and post it first, so that she would, like, feel compelled to write her idea that was actually awesome. (If I write this pairing really badly! Then El can write it really goodly! Etc etc.) Plus there was [this picture](http://i153.photobucket.com/albums/s229/amatarumrei2/bertkissingnotpatrick.jpg), which isn't actually them, but looks enough like them that I've wanted them together for a significant amount of time, okay?
> 
> ... Except then I wrote something and forgot about it? So, yeah. This is just some nonsense from a while back.

So, Pete gets married. It has nothing to do with Patrick sleeping with Bert McCracken, but Pete stands in the middle of his living room a few weeks later anyway, right as Patrick's about to leave, and says, "It's because I got married, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Patrick asks, scanning the floor for his other shoe. He _just_ had it. How does this kind of thing always manage to happen when he needs to be running out the door?

"I just told -- That guy. Bert. Mikey sent me an email -- "

"How the hell does he -- oh, I found it," Patrick says, crouching down to pull the shoe from under the couch. It's gotten wedged near the leg somehow. He huffs when he snatches it out, exhaling roughly, but when he looks up to address Pete fully, Pete's got a hand on his side, eyeing Patrick like he's waiting for an explanation. Patrick looks down and focuses on his shoving his foot in his sneaker, instead.

Pete says, "You can't avoid me. I'm still standing here."

Patrick dedicates all of his attention to carefully loosening the laces on his shoes, and then pulling them tight again. He says, finally, "Okay, I don't even see how this is any of -- "

"I can't believe you're serious right now!" Pete says, eyes wide. "I thought Mikey was shitting me."

"How does Mikey _know_?" Patrick says, standing up.

Pete shakes his head and roll his eyes, saying, "He heard from Bob who heard from Jeph or Brian or whoever the fuck, and one of them apparently got it from the horse's motherfucking mouth, and seriously. You're just trying to fuck with me, right?"

Patrick says, "I wasn't even going to tell you."

Pete stops, eyes narrowed. "Wait, why not?"

"Pete," Patrick says, grabbing his jacket. He opens the front door. "It's none of your business."

;;

Los Angeles -- Los Angeles county, that is -- it's a big place. Unless people run in incestuous circles, it isn't really all that likely that a guy has to worry about running into some guy his best friend's ex-whatever's brother pissed off three years ago. Maybe at an industry function or some music festival, but Patrick is pretty sure The Used have played the same festivals as them since that year, and even during those he's never really run into those guys. 

So there really, _really_ is no reason that Patrick should have run into Bert McCracken in a grocery store in West Hollywood, but honest-to-God, that's how it started.

;;

For whatever reason, Patrick tries to be a courteous guy. Generally. He's had some less than stellar moments, but for the most part, he tries to be considerate. If he's going to get drunk and have sex with a friend's ex, for instance, he's still going to find a piece of paper and leave his number just to be polite. 

Bert calls him a week later. The number isn't saved in his phone, but he recognizes the Valencia area code, and apparently that's enough to make him answer. "Hello?"

"I just found your phone number," Bert says. "This isn't even an LA number. I thought you lived in Hollywood."

"It's Chicago," Patrick says, rolling up the window in the car to cut down the wind. "I left the number on your coffee table."

"Should've stapled it to my head then," Bert says and coughs. "Anyway, I think you left your underwear here. I missed you, so I jerked off in them."

An awkward burst of laughter punches from Patrick before he can help it. Why the fuck did he drink so much beer the other night? He says, "Yeah, I, uh. I don't think I left anything there."

"Oh, shit. Then somebody's gonna be mad," Bert says, and Patrick doesn't know if he's supposed to be able to tell if Bert's kidding or if he's completely serious. "You could stick your fingers in my ass again, though. That was fun."

"Yeah, actually I'm on my way -- "

"The door's unlocked," Bert says, and the line goes quiet. Patrick asks after the silence a couple times, and then curses into at his steering wheel.

It takes him almost an hour to finish his errand and then head north.

;;

The next time Patrick talks to Pete, he opens with, "I think my baby is a squid."

Patrick counts it as an improvement over their last conversation, because at least this time they aren't talking about the results of his own sex life. And it's Pete, so Patrick's first response is to ask, "How do you know?"

"Ashlee had the ultrasound done today, and now we're sitting in a restaurant," Pete says. "She's in the bathroom right now, and I swear to God -- what if my kid is a squid?"

"Not that I've seen an, uhm, an overabundance of sonograms, man, but don't most people's kids look like squid?" Patrick asks. "Doesn't your kid still technically have gills at this stage?"

"I don't know. I forget when all that shit changes right now, but dude, you know how, when you're a kid, sometimes you get mad at your parents and you start thinking, fuck, I bet I was adopted? I bet my real parents were awesome and would let me stay up watch cable all night?" Pete says, and his voice sounds a little hushed. "I keep thinking, holy shit, what if I'm actually part squid? You remember that baby in Men in Black with the tentacles that puked all over Will Smith? What if that's my kid?"

Patrick doesn't laugh too hard. He keeps it together enough to sound serious as he says, "Well, I wasn't going to bring it up, but there was this one thing. I came across these papers that time I helped your mom clean some stuff out of your basement..."

"Don't even fucking play, Stump."

" -- your mom asked me not to say anything until the time was right, but I guess now's -- "

"Hey, how was fucking Bert McCraken?" Pete asks.

"-- a good -- that's not fair," Patrick says. "Don't try to make this about me."

Pete chuckles and says, "Dude, you did it. Don't you know they used to call him 'cauliflower dick'? Didn't _you_ participate in that?"

"No," Patrick says. He doesn't like that somehow he's the one on the spot now. "I think I'm gonna, um. You know what, I have to go -- "

"You're lying to me because you don't want to talk about -- oh, fuck, Patrick, did you put your mouth on that?"

"Enjoy lunch, Pete," Patrick says, and he ends the call.

;;

For the record, nobody blew anybody the first time.

Patrick has always maintained that he can't hold a room's attention as well some other people he knows. He still can't quite walk into any place and be Pete, who practically demands that people pay attention in various ways, some more obnoxious than others. Sometimes, even when he's standoffish and trying to blend in, he manages to get all eyes on what he's doing, especially now. Patrick still doesn't think he manages that kind of response in crowds, but he's not really shy either. Small talk doesn't make him uncomfortable. He can hold his own at parties, and yet once he got to the barbecue, Patrick had continuously found himself gravitating toward Bert, because Bert was the only person he had known at least somewhat.

It's a simple case of logic, really: Patrick plus unlikely circumstances where Bert represented Patrick's closest friend plus drinking a nice portion of the beer he'd helped cart over...

What he remembers for sure is that the sun had already set by the time Bert came out on the back patio again to find a lighter. Patrick was propped up in a corner, staring at the label on his longneck and wondering how he'd make it home wasted. Bert had cursed, hollering into the house in demand of something to light fucking weed with, fuck, and then he held up his Ziplock bag and shook it above Patrick's head.

"You probably don't smoke," Bert had said.

"Uh," Patrick said, sitting up against the wall. "No, sorry."

Bert seemed to have moved on already, digging in his hoodie pocket. He waved his hand, grunted, and then said, "Oh, fuck my ass, I think I left my --" Pushing open the sliding door again, Bert called out, "Is my piece on the counter? No, on the -- hey, K. K! Is it -- alright, no, fuck it , I'll --"

Patrick had reached out and knocked his knuckles against Bert's ankle, saying, "Oh, hey, I can -- if you have papers I can roll, though."

Bert's speech cut off when he turned back to Patrick. He said, "I can roll," and then stared at Patrick for a moment. Turning back to the house, he tapped on the glass and said, "You, hey. Are there papers? Didn't I have some goddamn papers? Oh, right there, hand me those."

He hadn't opened the glass all the way, instead shoving his arm through the narrow opening and pulling it back. Bert closed the door completely before sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of Patrick, and he handed over the weed and papers. 

It had been a while since Patrick had to roll anything. He hadn't actually smoked in a while, but it was probably one of those skills you learned from hanging out with various people day in and day out and never really lost. Not like it was particularly difficult, but there was also a certain _technique_. Joe had always been borderline meticulous about his blunts.

"It's not a Christmas present," Bert said, giggling. "What the fuck are you doing? Who taught you this?"

"Our guitarist -- Joe," Patrick said. He smiled, taking a moment to stretch out his fingers because they felt like they were stumbling over one another with so much drink in him. "He has a method."

"Fuck your method," Bert had insisted, but he had still grinned in the darkness and taken then joint where Patrick finished. They still didn't have a lighter, so they grabbed a candle off the patio table and lit it with that, some fruity wax scent mixing with the initial burn of paper and then marijuana. 

Bert had blown smoke in Patrick's face. Patrick coughed reflexively and wrinkled his nose.

"Why are you here?" Bert had asked. 

Patrick snorted, pulling up his hat and adjusting it. Maybe if he just threw up, he'd feel sober enough to leave. "You invited me."

Bert laughed again, the sound coming faster. It felt like mocking, but he held out his joint, so Patrick waved it off. He was so done trying to make sense of anything for the night.

Bert said, "Fucking pathetic," and somehow that had been the prelude to Bert's mouth on his. Patrick had really, truly been drunk. Too drunk or just drunk enough, and he couldn't tell if he actually thought making out on a stranger's patio was a good idea, but it still led to Bert climbing over Patrick's knees and letting him slip his fingers in Patrick's pants anyway. 

;;

Pete says -- Patrick's learning that Pete always has something to say, but Pete says, "You like 'em grimey, I know. I keep forgetting."

Which isn't even true. He kissed Dirty one time, and it happened to be during one of those moments where Pete came barging into a room. He's never let Patrick forget about it, and ever since, he's been convinced that he _knows_ things about Patrick's type.

"I don't like grimey dudes," Patrick says.

"You like Bert," Pete says. "You've probably liked Bert a _few_ times now."

"Still not your business."

Pete scrunches his face up, and then his eyes bug out briefly as he really lets it sink in. "Oh, Patrick, really? Dude, I can tell you stories about him, okay? Mikey told me about back in the day, with Gerard and Bert -- "

"--I don't want to know," Patrick cuts in, and he tries to cover his ears when Pete keeps talking.

Pete's saying, "Which, hey, I didn't even know people tried that kind of shit in real life. Maybe he's grown out of it though. You probably know, you've let him touch it --"

Patrick interjects, saying, "So, I went into a department store the other day, but it turns out they don't sell onesies to accommodate tentacles."

Pete stops and stands in the middle of the walkway, mouth wide. He frowns and says, "That's fucking low. Now you're just being mean."

;;

In retrospect, Patrick's fairly certain that Bert didn't even recognize who he was until several seconds into their initial exchange. By that time, they had already been knee-deep in awkward but mostly cordial conversation, probably because Bert had thought he was a _fan_ , and then when Patrick remembered that the last time they'd really crossed paths Bert had been manic and Bert remembered he had little respect for at least a key fourth of Patrick's band, well. It was too late.

Bert had handed Patrick a case of beer, saying, "Hey, hold that," in the middle of Patrick explaining why he was in the store. "I think we're gonna need more than one of these."

Patrick had looked down at the alcohol and asked, chuckling lightly, "Big plans for the afternoon?"

"Nope, just me," Bert said, straightening up again. He pressed his lips together, stretching them and freezing in a smile that made Patrick shift eventually and wonder if he'd just accidentally been an asshole, until Bert said, "Nah, my buddy's grilling at his house. The people need refreshment."

"Oh! Oh, yeah," Patrick had said, laughing again from relief this time. He really wanted to get out of the aisle. He was only wearing a t-shirt and the chill from the open coolers was giving him goosebumps. The fact that the conversation was making him feel weird hadn't helped. "It's a good day for that."

"Yeah, hey, if you're gonna stand around anyway, do you mind grabbing another one of these for me?" Bert asked. "Forgot a cart, you know?"

And Patrick was a nice guy, a polite guy, so he did. For some reason, he did, and later he ended up at the stupid party, and he never figured out if Bert really knew who he was right away.

;;

They don't fight about anything, because they're not a couple. They especially don't fight about Pete. Instead Patrick may mention that Pete won't get off his case lately or that they were at each other's throats a little in pre-production, and Bert always says the same thing. He always says, "Fuck him," all nonchalant and honest, and Patrick takes a moment to breathe and says, "Don't say that."

It's an improvement though. Some kind of half-assed stalemate where Bert will never pretend to like Pete, but he admires the way Patrick hates Bert a little for it, every time he reminds Patrick. The only time they ever really got into it, Bert had squeezed his eyes shut and giggled when Patrick was ready to hit him in the face for saying that Pete was the most see-through person he'd ever met. "Fucking hack," Bert had finished, and Patrick wanted to shake Bert, must have been bright red after going back and forth for several minutes, and when Patrick was too upset to speak anymore, Bert kissed Patrick's knuckles, smiled, and got down on his knees.

"You want to -- _now_?" Patrick said, incredulous, but it turned out that loyalty turned Bert on.

;;

"How's your boyfriend?" Joe asks, and Pete laughs to the right of him. Patrick reaches across Joe's body and manages to punch Pete right below the pocket of his jeans.

"Ow!" Pete says. "What the fuck? The hip?"

"You deserved it," Andy says, drumming out a rhythm on a pad as he warms up. He doesn't raise his eyes to them.

Joe looks around to watch Pete rub at his bruised hip and asks, "So, wait, you aren't hanging out with Bert?"

;;

Hanging out is a good way to put it. Patrick prefers that even though it's not entirely accurate. The thing is he sleeps with Bert more times can he can count on two hands, which has to indicate something, but Patrick isn't really ready for whatever word might be the most appropriate. By the same token, he's also spent enough time around Bert now that when Bert licks a long stripe along Patrick's cheek and then bites the flesh, Patrick knows it means hello and doesn't even flinch. He knows that when Bert blows raspberries against his naked stomach it means Bert's being romantic. He knows that when Bert tries to stick his tongue in Patrick's ear it means he's glad Patrick's there.

Pete pokes at the hickey on the back of Patrick's neck one afternoon, surveying the evidence. It takes three attempts at flapping behind himself for Patrick to get him to stop, and as he backs away, Pete mockingly says, "Careful, dude. Next thing you know, it's those three words and a big wedding."

"Whatever," Patrick says, ignoring it. "Can we play this song again?"

;;

Bert had told Patrick he loved him two weeks after they first started sleeping together, and it had just taken three months for Patrick to realize it was the only thing he was straightforward about.

;;

"Patrick," Bert had announced, still sitting on Patrick's lap. Patrick had forgotten how Bert got onto his lap just that fast, but there he had been, saying, "Patrick Stump."

"Mhm," Patrick said. "There used to be an 'h' in there, too. It was a 'ph'."

"Patrick Stumph," Bert had tried again, emphasizing the 'f' sound. "In case I don't remember this in the morning, let me say that you," and he jabbed his finger in to Patrick's shoulder. "You roll a good joint. You're good at that."

"I appreciate it."

"I'm impressed," Bert had said, and then he wrinkled his nose like he was catching a scent of something, trying to figure it out but he just jerked his hips forward. "And horny. It's the pot," he said, then squeezed Patrick's shoulders. "You're someone I'd fuck."

"Ha. Um, thanks," Patrick had said, feeling lazy. It was probably Bert's version of a sweet gesture, but Patrick had thought to himself that was no way he was going home with Bert. 

Of course not.


End file.
